by Tommy Dakar
The revolving restaurant was balanced on top of the modern hotel like a stranded flying saucer. Although it appeared to be perfectly at rest, it in fact spun imperceptibly, taking almost two hours to make full circle. By then, with luck, it would be all over, and Kludge would be back where he started.
‘Welcome back, sir, so nice to see you again.’
Once a year. Once a year! And yet the waiter, a pop-eyed ghoul whose tie seemed to be strangling him, fawned and smiled and made butleresque gestures towards the table, the way he did to all his customers. How Kludge hated this man. He was like something out of a horror movie, a Halloween character meant to frighten but verging on the comic.
‘Stop being so servile, you false, farcical fool.’
So much goes unsaid.
He wondered if he were the first to arrive; he’d found a parking space almost right in front of the foyer. After such a lucky break he had almost felt like tossing his keys to the doorman. Did they have valet service? But of course Larry had beaten him to it. He was at the bar, grinning, pretending that he was so at home, back amongst his dear friends the staff.
As always Larry was dressed for the occasion. Shirt and tie, v-neck sweater, greyish suit jacket, pressed dark blue jeans. He might be seen without a sweater, or with an overcoat. His tie might be blue or grey, or, if he were feeling zazzy, gold with black stripes. But Larry would only dress differently if he were playing sports or going to bed. He had decided long, long ago that those were the clothes that best suited his lifestyle, best defined his character, his world view. Nothing odd in that; many people decide on a hairstyle and stick with it through thick and thin. Now for Larry any deviance from that line was almost a betrayal of his core beliefs. He was not one for T-shirts, not one for Italian designer suits. He was, as anyone could see, just good old what you see is what you get Larry. Come and have a drink, he motioned, it’ll be added to the bill anyway.
‘Thought I’d beaten you to it this time.’
‘That’ll be the day! Still, keep trying.’
The annual family get together. The Kludge clan. A ritual dating back to …. Larry would know, but it would be unwise to unleash him so early in the evening. The frustrated teacher, that was Larry. Given half a chance he would go on about it for hours, impervious to the increasing signs of utter boredom and irritation on the faces of his beloved relatives. No, best let it drop, because Larry was the typical ageing bachelor who sat you down for three hours to explain in excruciating detail every moment and movement of his latest trip abroad. A lonely man when you are feeling sympathetic, but mostly a man to be avoided if possible.
It was time to take position. The rest of them would soon be arriving and there were certain members of the family that had to be kept separate for the sake of peace. Janice versus Nadine, for example, a head-on juggernaut collision. Or D.B. the dickhead against shifty-eyed Grant. Can’t have the kids too near Ma either without ill-natured rebuke and ill-concealed distaste sneaking in. It was going to be a great party.
Ma made her entrance, with Aunt Milly, her hand-maiden, in tow. A big fuss was made of her, lots of kisses and hugs, whilst Milly was treated according to her rank; she was all but ignored. The matriarch was placed at one end of the table, which was a convenient way of keeping her at arm’s length from those at the opposite end, namely Janice, husband Terry, and little but loud Georgia.
Ma presided now, and all those who were foolish enough to arrive later than her would receive one of her disdainful looks even as they humbly rushed to acknowledge her status and proclaim their undying love for her. She resembled an ageing eagle, tattered at the edges but with a keen fire in her eyes. She would feign weariness and deafness, senility and frailty, but would not lose track of her prey. Her talons were as sharp as ever.
The last in was Ted, which was no surprise, it was a wonder he had managed to remember the date at all. His fair hair he had whisked around the top of his head, and amazingly it stayed in place. Ted was the opposite of Larry, and would wear whatever was next in line in his wardrobe. Tonight it was the turn of his paisley patterned shirt, some dark, baggy trousers, and a heavy knitted cardigan more suited to trawlermen. He waved vaguely at everyone and honestly seemed unaware of Ma’s reproaches. He took the last available seat, next to unpopular Georgia. Serves you right for being late, said Ma in silence.
Igor brought in the food in his sullen, sinister way. Brain? Sheep’s eyes? The U.F.O. specialized in local food which meant unadventurous, lacklustre fodder they had every day at home anyway, but it was the best way of avoiding conflict. Grant would have probably suggested sushi or something exotic like that, and no doubt there would have been a few votes in favour of something a bit more upbeat. But Janice was present, and her Georgia did not eat anything that she had not seen other kids eat on the T.V. Definitely not anything weird, or with different colours, especially green. Ma did not take kindly to all this foreign invasion stuff either, and Aunt Milly had always been ‘delicate’, which meant fussy. She ate like a finicky sparrow, taking minute amounts then quickly looking up from her plate as if what she was doing were sinful. A pizza house, Ted had suggested once. The look on Janice’s face was enough. How could he indulge her in such a way? She was bad enough as it was without encouraging her. Now there could be no alternatives – the revolving restaurant it was.
The town rolled slowly past as they ate in public. Some seemed slightly embarrassed, trying to hide their chewing movements with their hands or their serviettes, others tucked in boldly, gleefully, wallowing in the feast. There were those that did not feel that the cuisine was up to scratch, and picked and flicked at the food on their plates as if it were some kind of alien material unfit for consumption. Ma ate as she did at home, noisily, with no concern for anybody else. Close your mouth when you eat. That used to be her advice to the children, but now look. Georgia had managed to get pizza to shut her up.
David, D.B. as he liked to be called, proposed a toast. He was the presenter of the show, young, robust, cheerful, and perfectly oblivious to social etiquette or subtle criticism.
‘Here’s to all of you, except Grant!’
A little joke which made reference to the well known fact that he thought Grant was a prick, and vice versa. An ice breaker, a nice little touch of humour, no hard feelings, water under the bridge. Grant can take it like a man, if you know what I mean, eh? He got his laughs of course.
Over to Grant.
But Grant was not amused. Or amusing. He could not contend with brick wall D.B.. not on his terms. So he smiled grimly, turned to Ma and said,
‘To Ma, thanks for everything.’
What a creep, but it worked, it had to work.
They drank to that. They drank to a lot more, too, and as the evening drew on, they warmed to each other, just as Ma and Milly had feared.
As long as they stuck to their intimate mini groups things were fine. Kludge caught snippets of their partial conversations now and then, and it was the usual banter. Sports news, social updates, superficial comments about world events. The problems would arise once the talk began to overspill and stain the surrounding subgroups. Then the age old conflicts would once more sour the air. Just as well they were family and loved each other.
‘Infant obesity is so simple. Educate your children to eat. So many parents think that education is something others do, like teachers or social workers, but the real emphasis is on them. If you let them do what they want just to keep them quiet, well…..’
Thank you Nadine.
‘Not only food, is it? The same goes for everything. Tele, digital stuff. Can’t just let them do what they want.’
Larry to the rescue? Not exactly.
All eyes were now on Janice and her family. Would she defend herself from this insidious attack? Would she use Georgia as a shield, or even resort to dragging husband Terry into the debate?
She took a different route. She lied. Blatant lies that she knew they all knew were blatant lies. Accuse me
if you dare. I am going to lie to shut you all up and you can think what you like about that!
‘Oh, we couldn’t agree more, could we Terry? It’s so important to have clear rules, and stick to them. Naturally it’s a slow process, but Georgia loves her salads and her greens, don’t you dear?’
Georgia nodded as she felt her knee squeezed below the table. Thanks Mum.
‘But tonight is a special occasion, and one little bit of pizza won’t hurt, eh?’
‘I’m not saying it to offend, Janice, it’s that I’m a little worried. You must …’
‘Tonight’s a celebration! We can drop the diet bit I think, can’t we?’
D.B. smiled his candid smile, and Nadine decided to back off for now.
‘You can see the tower now.’
Milly had spoken at last. Distracted and distracting. Always on the edges of the family, so unfathomable.
‘It takes one hour and forty-five minutes to complete a full circle.’
Larry had to be silenced or we would soon know the full history of revolving restaurants. Luckily Ted had something on his mind.
‘A revolution. Makes you think of change. But really it means the spin of a wheel. Takes you back to where you began.’
At last a subject Grant could warm to.
‘Yes, yes, that’s really quite good, Ted. That’s more or less why Albert Camus, in his book the Rebel, tries to explain why the word ‘revolution’ is not really apt at all, and that it is the rebel who really brings about change.’
‘Rebels my arse.’
Footnotes courtesy of D.B.
‘You were not much of a rebel.’
Ma chimed in, aimed at Ted. That would later be analysed in depth.
Grant had asked for it, not so much by mentioning philosophy at a family reunion, but because he had unwisely chosen to pronounce the author’s name in its original French form, dropping the superfluous last letters: Alber Camu. Odd how that irritated so many so quickly.
‘So pretentious those French.’
Milly once more. What did she have against the French? She’d never been abroad in her life. It was best to ignore her as always.
‘Well at least Grant had something interesting to say.’
Nadine appeared to have drunk a little too much. She was itching for a fight.
‘Oooh, excusez-moi, madame. Voulez-vous a lilltle more du vin?’
That was as far as Larry’s French went.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Very eloquent, Nadine.’
Janice had spotted her chance for revenge.
‘But there are children present.’
‘Hold her back, Terry!’
D.B. trying to add a touch of humour.
What a balancing act this was, trying to keep them all under control and on best behavior!
Terry, surprised that he had been named, looked lost as always. He was really no more than a spectator, an unofficial observer. If he ever tried to get involved he would be told in no uncertain terms that his presence and his status was merely ‘political’, and he would never be a fully paid up member of the Kludge club.
‘What’s for dessert, Dad? Can I have ice-cream?’
Georgia was being rather discreet tonight, perhaps overwhelmed by the adult display.
‘Tonight you can have whatever you like, my darling.’
Janice threw this in Nadine’s direction, hoping she would rise to the bait, but she was met with a stony silence.
Ma, realizing that she was the only one who could restore a veneer of peace, tapped her glass with her fork. The table gradually fell silent. The waiter hovered in the wings like a slavering buzzard, unsure whether to move on to the dessert or keep respectful distance. An insurance building tentatively edged into view. It was time for Ma to speak.
It would be short and uninspiring, would glide over so many unattended issues, and leave everyone desiring more. But that was how it was with Ma. There was never any more. Her secrets would die with her. So be it; she was the boss.
‘First, thank you all for coming tonight.’
Not at all, not at all.
‘Second, and I don’t want any fuss about this, this is on me.’
They knew that, and had used every trick in the book to pay for her, but that evil waiter was under her spell and she would have her way. So they simply groaned and writhed, defeated by her will.
‘And finally, I want no more bickering! I think that we are civilized enough to get through at least one night a year without being at each others’ throats.’
She let that sink in before adding
‘So, here’s to us all. Cheers!’
They finished in good spirits. The town rolled back to where it had originally been, and little by little they trickled out, with kisses and hugs, or at least a no-hard-feelings goodnight.
Kludge wiped his mouth one last time with his napkin. Igor appeared with a little silver tray and slipped it in front of him. He opened it up.
Dinner for one, it read. He passed him his credit card.
‘Would you like to make a reservation for next year, sir, as is your custom?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Very well. Mr. Kludge, table for one, same time next year. Thank you, sir.’
Arven's list
As Arven's time drew near he realised he had absolutely no idea what it had all been about.
He was not sure if he had two weeks or two months to live, but he wouldn't make it to New Year, that was clear. Apart from that he swore he felt fine. The morphine cocktail was doubly effective; it numbed the pain as well as helping him lose grip on a reality for which he was not at all prepared.
Arven was not a religious man. There were no deep philosophical reasons for this, it was simply that he had been overwhelmed by the choice. They all seemed perfectly respectable, but which one should he decide on? It was almost impossible to set one above and beyond the others, to the exclusion of the rest, without feeling a little sorry for the losers. So he just got on with it on his own.
Now he could have done with a little faith to cheer him up.
So that was that, then. It had been a bit chaotic at times, and he could now admit that he had made more than his fair share of mistakes, but three wonderful kids and two grandchildren now gathered round him as a kind of compensation.
Shouldn't there be something else, something......more? It was difficult to express, but he felt that, had his life been a book, then the ending was particularly weak. Cancer, and gone. In the middle of so many plans. It was untidy, it was pointless, it was pathetic. Though perhaps he was not an entire book, but merely a chapter, or a sentence in a larger novel. Or even less: a conjunction, a comma, a full stop.
It was too late to understand now. A punctuation mark in the Book of Life! Please! Still he had an urge, a desire, a need, to leave some kind of record of his life, something that could be handed down to future generations. His life was over now, but he had existed, he had lived, and he had learnt. He knew it could not be a work of art, or a philosophical tract, but he had to do what he could while he still had the strength and clear-headedness to do so.
He decided to make a list. He called it 'Things I will Miss when I'm Dead'. It was not to be the usual romantic nonsense about sunsets and kisses, but rather a collection of sounds, scents and sensations that all too often went unnoticed. The smell of decay, the bite of an ant, the first symptoms of flu. Perhaps they would help his descendants capture part of the intensity of a life that was impossible to retain.
Unfortunately he died before he could begin.
HOME AND AWAY
